The middle-aged, obese, white man on the mobility scooter had started talking to us in the grocery store after asking my husband for help with a container of milk that had been out of his reach.
"You guys have been married for less than three years," he had announced suddenly. "Be nice to each other, okay? Don't divorce, just don't do it." He looked at us more closely.
"Where are you guys from?" He didn't believe us when we told him we were from India. He got confused and struggled to speak for a second.
"Nooo," he said in slow disbelief. He looked at my husband. "Are you not Jewish?" He looked at me. "You look a little..." he didn't say what, but he turned back to my husband and said, "...but you must be Jewish!" My husband later thought that he almost looked disappointed. The man continued to speak.
"But you must be very Americanised by now? I mean, you must mostly be eating American food now, right?"
I shook my head. "No, we mostly eat Indian food."
"Well, okay, then," he said. "Just don't divorce. It makes a mess of things."